


I Don't Want To Die (It's 3am)

by AromaticAromantic



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Art imagery, Gen, Insomnia, Its implied, Poor Deceit, Self Harm, Short, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma, a while ago, but not like, deceit is suffering, implied trauma, much angst, nothing graphic really, really there if that makes sense, written at 3AM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:53:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22188946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AromaticAromantic/pseuds/AromaticAromantic
Summary: Deceit’s struggling, and even if he wants to be helped, he can’t bring himself to do it.(TW for implied past trauma, suicidal thoughts, and implied self harm.)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 103





	I Don't Want To Die (It's 3am)

It’s three am and Deceit is tired. He forgot his medication, and he regrets it. Or, he thinks he should. He should regret not taking it, because it makes the pain worse, makes the memories play on loop, makes him stop sleeping.

He doesn’t want to sleep though. His heart races, flashes of faces leaning over him cross his mind when he closes his eyes. His present is empty but his head won’t let him stop.

He wonders how the others would feel about his medication. The post it notes hiding and correcting the flaws in his art, the out of proportion eyes, the wonky hands, the bad perspective.

He glances at his sketchbook, feeling the urge to draw, to paint, create. He could show the twins, show them that he appreciates their work, show that they inspire him.

He reaches over, opens it slowly, glancing at the vibrant pastels, the dull grey marker, the incomplete works he abandoned last month.

The urge is there, but his hand shakes when he lifts the pen, and he changes his mind, throwing it aside and trying to sleep again.

It’s three am and Deceit is fed up of hearing Virgil next door, music still playing from the other resident insomniac. He can’t bring himself to cry when Virgil is so close by, in case he’s heard, in case his ex-friend comes to ask what’s wrong.

He holds his breath, rolls over and buries his head under a pillow, clenching and unclenching his fists, hissing quietly to himself that he needs to sleep, needs to rest, needs to keep going, for Thomas.

He doesn’t linger on what he means, closing his eyes and picturing smooth pixels on multiply, pastel painted dots below line art.

He falls asleep to the thought of what his art could be, and wakes up with the idea now distant in his head.

It’s three am and Remus is there, talking about things Deceit enjoys, whilst Deceit tries to be patient. Whilst he tries to tell himself that he should enjoy being with his friends, that it’s good to have company when he feels so low.

“Did you take your medication?” Remus asks suddenly, and Deceit shrugs.

“I think so,” he lies, knowing there’s six days of tablets he’s forgotten to take, too busy trying and failing to sleep to remember to take them. Too busy trying to live day to day.

“You should check-”

“I mean, I did,” he lies again, charcoal lines smudging, the black grinding harsh, sticking to his hands and bleeding slow, “don’t worry, I know I need to take them.”

Remus looks unconvinced, but Deceit smiles, shows him a warm colour palette, and Remus drops it, onto the next subject, unaware of how desperately Deceit just wants to be alone.

And it’s five am but he can’t sleep, can’t think, can’t make, can’t lie, but he’s _tired_ and wonders what it’s like to destroy a piece of art in progress.

It’s three am and he doesn’t know why he’s looking at a cheery vision, a patchy impressionist painting reminiscent of Roman’s ideas.

“I’m Dr Emile Picani!” the fuzzy vision says with a grin, “I think Thomas is trying to design my character a bit more for the next _Cartoon Therapy_.”

Deceit blinks slowly. Right. Dr Picani the therapist. How ironic, coming across him in his current state.

“Can you actually help people?” he asks, unsure of how long the idea will be around for.

“I believe so! What do you need?”

“…I need…I need…”

Over saturated watercolours drip down the page.

“I need you to…to help me…stay alive…”

The idea looks confused, and Deceit continues, the empty vision the only thing he can say the words aloud to.

“Because…I don’t want to die.”

He thought when he said it (a truth, a lie, two inks bleeding together) it’d be loud and angry and distraught, tears and confessions and desperation. Deep slashes through layers of still drying oil.

But instead it’s simple, defeated, tired. Less oil built up on canvas, more scratches of biro on graph paper. Less Renaissance, more tired high school student.

The idea frowns, tilting it’s head and adjusting it’s glasses.

“Why would you die?” it asks, and Deceit doesn’t have a response.

He doesn’t want to die. He wants to die. He can’t die. He can fade. He wants to fade. He doesn’t want to fade. Framed prints behind glass behind velvet curtains.

“You should talk to someone more real than me,” the idea says softly, and Deceit shrugs.

“There’s nothing more real than us right now,” he replies, glancing around the empty room, and when he looks back the idea is gone.

Art is brief and fleeting, and his canvas bleeds, silvery watercolour dripping down unsuitable paper, leaving wrinkles in its wake.

It’s three am and his phone is beeping, one of the others asking him why he’s still online, ignoring the perfect irony. He regrets them knowing his tumblr account, regrets them seeing his trauma, seeing his pain laid out in perfect black and white photographs.

He reaches out, opens up the app, glances at Roman’s messages, sees the days of notifications he’s been ignoring.

_U ok? Not seen you recently._

He wants to reach out, call for help, tell him he’s lonely and sad and hurting and god he doesn’t want to die, if only because he’s scared and Thomas needs him still.

_I’m not doing so well, Roman. I really want to die._

He deletes the message, deciding not to send it. He doesn’t want to be vulnerable, paint so carefully laid out, still wet, still easy to smudge. He doesn’t want them to worry, he doesn’t want to admit to the pain, he doesn’t want to die but he doesn’t want to live.

_Sorry, being antisocial lol. I’m fine. U?_

He chucks his phone away and buries himself back under blankets, knowing he’s only postponing his final message.

It’s three am and he knows he’s messing up. He knows he needs to take his medication, needs to eat, needs to talk, tell people he’s struggling.

He forgets to talk Thomas out of thinking of his existential crisis, and Thomas is still awake, living proof that Deceit keeps failing even when all he has to do is his one job. Lie, keep lying, keep Thomas alive, healthy, keep him fighting.

Bristles fall out of brushes when you leave them in water long enough, and it damages the canvas, leaves bits of paintbrush in the art.

He looks to his sketchbook, gathering dust, and wonders what the point would be any more. He can’t complete anything, he has no skill. He’s not designed to create, not designed to be passionate, he’s designed to lie.

He can’t get rid of the faces, and he can’t sketch them out, show them simply to the others, can’t word them, the thoughts, the images, like an old worn out film on repeat.

“Sorry, Thomas,” he mumbles, and rolls over, trying to sleep.

It’s three am but Patton is sat with him, asking him why he won’t sleep, asking him why he looks so ill, asking him questions Deceit can’t answer, doesn’t want to answer.

“We’ll help you if you need anything,” the moral side tells him, and his eyes are so hopeful, dusky watercolours lined with ink, soft but sharp, “you know that, right?”

And oh, Deceit knows. He knows they’d help, wants to ask for the help, but he doesn’t, and he can’t explain why. He nods and lies his way out of the interrogation, getting Patton to leave, and tries to ignore the way his heart stings at his self imposed isolation.

His room is empty and devoid of the passion he thinks he could have. But it feels so full, full to the brink of long gone shadows, the past weighing in like a thick fog, clouding his head until he falls to the floor in silent tears, not daring to be loud, not daring to let Patton know how much it hurts.

He’s struggling, a shaky sketch doomed to be scrapped, and still all he knows is that he _doesn’t want to die._

He doesn’t know what time it is, but the other sides have sat him down, firing questions at him. What is he doing, how is he doing, what does he need, why is he ignoring them?

“Don’t you want to get better?” Logan asks, as if it’s ever been that simple.

Deceit reaches for an answer, an explanation, hesitating between stubs of oil pastel and harsh messy chalk on black paper. But whatever he does, the piece is too abstract and surreal for an explanation to take form in his voice.

“Deceit, we don’t get why you’re doing this to yourself,” Virgil says, struggling with the words, as if Deceit knows any more than he does.

“We’re here to help,” Roman adds, “we just need to know how.”

The canvas is tearing at the seams. Deceit hates when his canvas’ tear. He can’t hide it, even with all the collage and mixed media in the world, watching it bend out of shape.

“I want to get better,” he says, a truth, drops of ink in calligraphy pens.

“Then tell us how we can help!” Patton pleads.

And Deceit shakes his head, head blurry and unsure of how to explain. He doesn’t know how, he doesn’t know what to say, he doesn’t believe they can help push out the voices of the past.

(The sketch is still there underneath the line art.)

He doesn’t know what time it is, but he’s scared, and he doesn’t want to die.

“I could kill you,” the past taunts him, sly and low and echoing through his ears.

He doesn’t want to die any more than he did back then.

He doesn’t know what time it is, but he’s run out of colour, and you can only paint a canvas black for so long before you scrap it altogether.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Short and an old fic but still :)


End file.
